30DaystoSyn

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  He gave her a disbelieving look that made her giggle.

  “Yes, he’s glaring daggers at me for that one. You, too? Level 499. Did you buy the little dancing meer…? Oh, hell. He’s growling like a wounded tiger. I’d better go. Nice talking to you too. I’m looking forward to meeting you tomorrow,” she said. She ended the call then tossed the phone back to him. “She sounds really nice.”

  “She’s a pain in the ass,” he told her.

  “She said the same thing about you.”

  He snorted, slapped the cell phone on the bedside table then opened his arms, flexed his fingers like a little boy. “Come here,” he said.

  She kicked off her penny loafers and crawled up the bed. She snuggled against him as he closed his arms around her and laid his chin on the top of her head.

  “How much vacation time do you have coming?” he asked.

  “I don’t. I won’t have any more until next August.”

  “Fuck that,” he said. “I own the fucking company and I’m giving you vacation time starting now.”

  She frowned. “The other employees won’t like that,” she told him.

  “Then I’ll fire them and hire new people,” he said. “I’ll put you in charge of the company and—”

  “Stop talking,” she said and dropped her hand to his crotch and gripped him firmly. That effectively shut him up.

  She massaged him through the shorts then slid her hand inside to fondle him.

  “Woman…”

  “Man,” she said, sliding her fist up and down him.

  “You keep that up and it won’t be bananas you’ll be gobbling,” he warned.

  She slipped out of his arms, put her hands on his thighs. “Uncross your legs,” she ordered.

  He did.

  She urged his thighs apart, pushing them perhaps a bit wider than was comfortable for him from the look on his face. She moved between his spread legs, stretched out on her belly as he had the night before and tugged his hard as steel cock from the opening of the shorts.

  “Be careful, Melina,” he cautioned her. “There is a limit to my control. Unless you are prepared to…”

  She lowered her head and took him between her lips.

  “Melina!” he yelped.

  It wasn’t as bad as she thought it might be. He was thick and hard in her mouth but he didn’t thrust himself at her as Rachel warned he might. If anything he was as still as a placid lake. By his reaction, she had managed to shock him speechless and motionless though his cock was throbbing between her lips. His head was off the mattress and he was staring at her with something akin to awe. The first drop of salty fluid that touched her tongue wasn’t bad, either, and she did as Rachel instructed—she sucked.

  “Melina!” This time her name was all but shrieked and his hands went to her hair, his fingers threading into the long strands.

  She drew on him as she’d been instructed and his hips began to raise and lower in a way that worried her at first. The worry gave way to a supreme sense of empowerment. She was turning him inside out with just her mouth. Imagine, she thought, what her cunt could do to him!

  For weeks now he had been teasing her with touches and kisses. In the last few days the action had escalated but it still wasn’t at the level she wanted—needed—it to be. She was tired of her virgin status. She wanted to be a woman in fact as well as age. She wanted to be his woman.

  She wanted him.

  She had so surprised him that he was beyond rational thought. His body had taken over his mind and it had a consciousness of its own. His hips were moving in rhythm to the way she was drawing on his shaft. He had no control whatsoever over his reactions to what she was doing to him.

  And he didn’t want to control it. He was more than content to place himself in her hands—unskilled as they were—because the soft, wet warmth of her mouth had taken him to a place where he could stay forever. He closed his eyes and savored the moment.

  God bless Rachel, he thought, as Melina’s soft hands cupped his balls and began to massage them gently but firmly. The glorious lips were pressing knowingly against the coronal ridge of his cock and that sweet, sweet tongue was making forays down the frenulum and causing tingling ripples to flow down his spine.

  For a moment or so longer he sank into the superb pleasure she was giving him. He was as hard as he could ever remember being and he was throbbing, aching with need. His hands guided her head in a better rhythm upon which she picked up very quickly. He felt her swallow and his eyes flew open.

  “No,” he said.

  He was close—too close—to coming and he didn’t want her mouth on him when he did. As innocent and untried as she was, such a thing might well ruin the experience for her and cause her to have reason to dislike it. Him coming in her mouth couldn’t happen.

  “No, baby,” he said. “You gotta stop now.”

  She eased him from her mouth but her hand was still gripped tightly near the base of his shaft.

  “Am I hurting you?” she asked.

  “No, baby, no, but if you keep that up, I’m going to come,” he told her.

  “I know,” she said. “Rachel said—”

  “Melina,” he said, firmly though every fiber of his being resented having to deny what he wanted so badly. “I can’t come like this.”

  “But Rachel said—”

  “Rachel isn’t you,” he said a bit harsher than he intended to. He saw hurt go through her eyes and he shook his head. “Baby, your friend is experienced with men. You aren’t.”

  “I want to be,” she said. “I want to know how to give a man so much pleasure he won’t ever want another woman.”

  Jealousy so intense, so wild hit him hard enough to kill the erection in her hand. Fury flooded his soul and a dark, bitter anger rose up.

  “The only man you will ever pleasure, baby, will be me!” he told her.

  She gave him one of her looks that he couldn’t interpret. Her face was devoid of expression.

  “You don’t own me, Kiwi,” she said. “You’re just renting me.”

  Nothing she could have said could have hurt him—or angered him—more. Momentarily the image of his mother shifted over hers.

  He clamped his teeth together. “Let go of me,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Take your hand off me, Melina,” he ordered.

  She let go of him as though he were a hot stone. There was confusion on her face then sudden understanding.

  “Kiwi, that’s not what I meant.”

  “Oh, I think it is,” he said as he stuffed himself into the shorts. He drew his knees up and rolled to the side of the bed. Swinging his legs over the edge, he stood, reached for his jeans that were lying on the other bed and drew them on.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, hurt filtering through her voice.

  “I’m going home,” he said.

  She watched him in silence as he buttoned his shirt. He sat on the other bed to draw on his boots then snatched up his peacoat and thrust his arms into the sleeves in silence.

  If he had expected her to plead with him to stay, he began to understand that she wouldn’t. Her eyes were on him but she was kneeling in the middle of the bed with her hands on her thighs, her lips slightly parted.

  “This place is a fucking dump. I’ll find you somewhere decent to stay until all this blows over,” he said as he headed for the door.

  Without another word, he pulled open the door and left, slamming the portal behind him hard enough to rattle the windows. The harsh sound of his motorcycle engine revving up then the squeal of his tires as he peeled out of the motel parking lot underscored the anger that had turned his blood to molten iron.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Night Twenty-One

  Spike—as Christine insisted she call her—had been a delight. As soon as she saw the sassy tall woman, she’d known why the Kiwi had given her the nickname. Her short blonde hair stood up in spikes all over her head and her makeup screamed Goth. All black clot
hing that fit her as tight as a second skin was capped off with a long black leather duster like the cowboys from the Old West used to wear. Thigh-high black boots completed the sinister ensemble.

  “Cool duds,” she said.

  “I’m a Westie,” Spike informed her as they shook hands. Her grip was powerful. “From West Auckland.”

  Spike had brought the clothes the Kiwi had insisted she bring along with a breakfast of assorted fruit, orange juice and bagels with strawberry cream cheese. “Jono said there weren’t any restaurants nearby so I brought you brekkie on the chance you’d be hungry.”

  “I’m starved,” she told her. “All I’ve had this morning is coffee but it was pretty good.”

  “Lord Vader called Jono last night and asked him to look for temporary quarters for you.” The pale-blue eyes framed in a ton of black eye shadow, thick eyeliner and spiky lashes widened. “I had a fucking good time giving the papas a run for their money. I’ve been timing myself and it only took me five minutes to escape them this morning.” She laughed. “Just for shits and giggles I drove past your house. Girl, there were papas all over your front lawn.”

  She knew Spike was referring to the paparazzi, the press. “Bastards,” she said as she poured herself a glass of orange juice.

  “True that,” Spike agreed.

  “How is he this morning?” she asked as she filled a paper plate Spike had thoughtfully provided for the fresh fruit.

  “Dunno. Ain’t seen him.”

  “Doesn’t he usually come in early?”

  Spike shrugged. “The Dark Lord does whatever he wants but yeah, yeah, yeah, he generally comes in on a sparrow fart.” She swirled her hand. “Kiwi for crack of dawn.”

  “Have you spoken to him today?”

  “No,” Spike said. She frowned. “Which isn’t bog standard. He likes to fuck up my morning by giving me totally useless orders just to watch me bust my hump.”

  “Could you call Jonny and ask him if he’s heard from Kiwi?” she asked.

  Spike had turned her head to one side. “Are you worried about him, Lina?”

  “Let’s just say we didn’t part on the best of terms last night.”

  “The prick is stroppy most of the time,” Spike said with a snort. “He needs his arse kicked.”

  “It was my fault,” she said.

  “Eh, well whether it was or not, the fucked-up bugger will make you think it’s your fault,” Spike replied.

  “No, it was. I think I inadvertently made myself act like his mother.”

  “That’s a bit of a worry, eh?” Spike said. “He’s a sook when it comes to that dodgy old tart.”

  Spike had stayed another half hour and in that time told her how she had met the Kiwi. Despite the insults the tall blonde woman flung his way it was obvious she had very tender feelings for Synjyn McGregor.

  “Wouldn’t have him on a stick if he was handed to me at a lolly scramble,” she insisted. “Wouldn’t root him if he was the last bloke on earth but he’s a right good one when it comes down to it. A woman could do much worse than Synnie McGregor.”

  * * * * *

  She heard nothing from him all day, though she hoped he would use a burner phone and contact her. Wishing she had asked for a burner phone of her own so she could call Jonny to find out what was happening, she began pacing the floor at eight-fifteen. By nine o’clock she was beginning to worry. Twice she went to the phone on the table between the beds and twice she stopped short of picking it up. Chewing on her lip, she paced some more until it was a little past ten and she could no longer contain the anxiety that raked at her with steel claws.

  She snatched up the receiver, punched the nine button, waited for the dial tone and called Jonny’s number. He answered on the first ring.

  “I’ll call you back, Tuey!” he said and hung up.

  “Tuey?” she questioned, looking down at the receiver. “Who the hell is Tuey?”

  By the time Jonny returned her call, she was ready to jump out of her skin.

  “Is he with you?”

  She felt the carpet shift beneath her feet as though it was about to be pulled out from under her. “No,” she said, her hand tightening on the receiver. “He’s not there?”

  “No one has seen him all day,” Jonny said. “He never made it home last night and his mobile is going directly to voice mail.”

  “Where could he be, Jonny?” she asked. She was suddenly queasy.

  “I wish to hell I knew.”

  He was in so much pain he could no longer think of anything else. Lying on his aching belly with the battered side of his face pressed to the musty carpet, it was getting harder and harder to draw a decent breath. Each time he drew air into his lungs, tears filled his eyes for the agony was like a red-hot poker jamming into his side. All he could do was stare at the clock on the wall as the hours crept relentlessly by—hoping and praying someone would come soon. It was after eleven on Thursday night. That much he knew. He also knew where he was.

  Not that it mattered. Apparently no one was looking for him and if they were, they hadn’t thought to look for him there.

  The bastards who had attacked him had been waiting for him and that begged the question how they knew where he’d be. He hadn’t gone home from the motel because he didn’t want to run through the maze of news people waiting for him. Instead, he’d gone to the office park. There’d been no cars on Saur Rd. None parked in front of building 459. He’d been alone in the elevator and no one had been lurking in the hall as he inserted his key in the door to number 202.

  They’d been in the Room—waiting in the dark—and the one behind the door had hit him hard as he came through the door. The lights came on to blind him. After that, it had been ungodly pain and unrelenting humiliation at being completely unable to protect himself. Flashbacks of his years in prison kept zinging through his head with every punishing hit.

  Lying there now with his arms tied behind his back and his mouth covered with duct tape, he drifted in and out of consciousness for the pain was more than he could bear. The overhead lights had been turned off but they’d forgotten the one in the bathroom. A thin shaft of light kept the room from being totally dark.

  He tried to shift positions and stopped, his belly rippling with agony.

  How many times, he wondered, had the bastard kicked him in the gut?

  Five? Ten? More?

  Trying to concentrate on something other than the pain, once more he assessed the damage they’d done to him over the two hours it had taken them to beat him to a bloody pulp.

  He knew he had at least one broken rib and his kidneys were on fire from the brutal punches that had driven him to his knees. His groin was throbbing unmercifully and the pain from that kept him as immobile as he could be. He prayed his balls weren’t ruptured. The small of his back was one long swathe of pure agony so a vertebrae or two might be cracked from the kicks. His nose was broken. He had several loose teeth. He worried his right cheekbone might be fractured because his entire face was one giant plane of agony. At the very least he had two black eyes—one swollen completely shut—and so many cuts there was a pool of blood under his cheek. He couldn’t move one of his wrists and thought it might well be broken but he could no longer feel his hands. There was no doubt in his mind he had a concussion because he kept fading out for longer and longer periods of time.

  He was completely helpless. He couldn’t turn over. He couldn’t crawl. The men—there’d been four of them—had stuck the leg of the desk between his legs before taping his ankles together. The desk was heavy so he was effectively tethered to it. They’d been laughing when they left and why shouldn’t they? They’d earned the money they’d been paid to hand him his ass.

  And he was severely dehydrated.

  Not to mention hungry as hell.

  The bastards had done a number on him. It was a wonder they hadn’t killed him but he was fairly sure they were professionals and knew just how far to go, how much pain to give, where and how long befo
re death became the end result.

  Something else he knew.

  He knew the person who had ordered him brought to ground and if it was the last thing he ever did, he’d return the favor.

  “Where the hell could he be?” Craig demanded. He plowed a hand through his thick black hair. There was fury infusing his dark complexion. Every now and then he would use Māori curse words that would make Jonny, Spike and Jake blush and they’d glance her way in apology as though she understood what he was saying.

  “I’ve got all our men out looking for him,” Kit said. As head of McGregor Industries’ security division he had been the first to arrive at the corporate offices. “So far there’s not a trace.”

  The building was in lockdown and all nonessential personnel had been sent home. Outside the conference room where the six of them sat, two burly guards were posted and the room had been swept twice over for bugs. A scrambler device had been turned on so no conversation could be remotely monitored from outside. It had shocked her to learn the paparazzi had some pretty powerful surveillance equipment.

  “There’s no sign he has been home since he left last evening,” Jonny said. “Only thing missing is his bike.”

  “Which one?” Kit asked.

  “Most likely the Icon Sheene,” Jake said.

  Jonny shook his head. “No it was the Harley.”

  Jake snorted. “Must have been in one of his bad-boy biker moods last night.” He looked at her. “Were you two role playing?”

  She felt the flush heat her cheeks. “That’s not something we do.”

  “Really? It was clearly stated in the ad,” Jake reminded her.

  She looked away from him. “Yes, but he’s never suggested we do it.”

  “Give him time,” Jake said. “He’ll get around to it. That’s his usual—”

  “Shut up, Jake,” Jonny ordered.

  “Just saying,” Jake mumbled. “When the role playing starts, the affair is ending.”

  “What about the Room?” she asked and every head turned toward her.